Desperation
by CMakg
Summary: An exploration of the events the led to T'Pol's trellium adduction. Infers T/T'P. Cannon compliant.
1. Days 1-4

_I_ _wrote this story in response to a lot of commentary I had read from other authors who had strong objections to the addiction storyline in Season 3. Many people seemed to think that it was completely out if character for a Vulcan and amounted to little more than a character assassination of T'Pol. I always took a very different view of this plot line. Vulcans are often written as invulnerable, almost Mary Sue, characters that stick unbendingly to their culture and beliefs and are incapable of change. But what happens to a Vulcan who becomes culturally isolated amongst a group of aliens whose cultural mores are, in many respects, diametrically opposed to her own. T'Pol was subject to a number of situations that would have impacted her emotional resolve, both physiologically and psychologically. Culturally isolated as she was and from an intensely private species it would have been difficult for her to communicate the nature of her problem, even to Phlox. Add a crisis and moral quandary and you may have a situation that could push her over the edge._

_This is set during the Episode Similitude, from my examination of actual dates mentioned in episodes, I estimate Similitude could have been about 3 months before the episodes Azarti Prime and Damage, when she admits she had been taking trellium for 3 months._

_I tried as much as possible to follow the timeline obliquely outlined in the episode. According to dialogue it apparently takes 2 days for the larvae to develop into a newborn and Sim is 8 days old when he undergoes the procedure to harvest his tissue. I have to admit this timeline seemed a little screwy to me and I was going to adjust it, but in the end I just rolled with it._

_I have rated this as T because it deals with the theme of addiction._

* * *

**Day** **1**

Something feels off. There is something that is... not quite right, aside from the mess of twisted metal and smoking relays in engineering of course, but something else. She has a strange sensation. It is difficult to explain, because it feels and she is unfamiliar with feeling. It feels like there is something missing, an absence, there is a hollowness in her stomach that she can not logically explain. She goes over the diagnostics and damage reports again looking for some detail that has missed her attention but has been subconsciously noted. It is illogical, years of training and discipline means she should not have a subconscious. She should notice everything. Vulcan's do not have hunches, they did not have instincts, they do not have feelings, let alone ones in their gut.

She considers the odd sensation, perhaps it is a relic from the trellium poisoning she suffered a few months earlier. Maybe it is related to the Pa'nar Syndrome. The Doctor monitored her symptoms closely and kept the symptoms largely in remission, but experience has taught her the disease could progress suddenly and unexpectedly, requiring urgent tweaking to her treatment regime. The Expanse was also taking its toll on her physically and mentally. The combined effects of the trellium, the Pa'nar and the attack by the telepathic slave, Rajiin, has eroded her mental discipline to an extent she has never experienced in her adult life.

Focusing her awareness on the task at hand, she pushes the uncomfortable sensation aside in the manner of her people and concentrates on the reports and diagnostics, feeding the data into the beginnings of a repair plan, which Commander Tucker will no doubt refine when he is released from sickbay. She is confident that, if there is indeed something she has missed, he will notice it quickly and remedy the situation. She will meditate as soon as she gets the chance and that should take care of any and all feelings, odd or otherwise.

Then the Captain comes to Engineering for a report on the damage and repairs and informs her that Commander Tucker may not survive his injuries. The hollow feeling in her stomach remains, and is joined by a tightness in her chest.

* * *

**Day** **2**

Her meditation has been unsatisfactory. She does not want to go to sick bay but with Commander Tucker indisposed she is required to be completely functional. The Doctor notices her gaze drift to the medical bay's tragic occupant. It disturbs her; she is Vulcan, her attention should not drift anywhere.

"His prognosis is not good," Phlox informs her quietly, seeing nothing unusual in her interest.

He does not understand how unVulcan her behaviour is. Given that she has been updated on Commander Tucker's condition and the likely negative outcome, it is not logical for her to seek out personal confirmation of data that has already been disseminated to her. A stream of crew members have visited since the accident the day before, all looking for reports on Commander Tucker's well-being. It does not occur to him that she should be any different.

She feels like she should answer the Doctor, that there is some correct arrangement of words that will convey her... her what? Her thoughts, her _feelings_, on the likely death of the Commander. She does not even know what her feelings are. She pushes them away so instinctively they are gone from her awareness before they have a chance to so much as alight on her consciousness, let alone be named and talked about.

It turns out her active participation in the conversation is not required. The Doctor obviously feels the need to talk. As he he scans her and monitors the results he informs her of his proposal to utilise the Lyssarrian Desert Larvae to cultivate neural tissue for transplant to Commander Tucker. This time her attention does not shift from the Doctor.

"I assume you are not ignorant of the ethical ramifications of such an undertaking, Doctor?" She asks him archly.

"What? Hmm...?" He briefly looks up from the scanner with an expression that suggests he is surprised she is still there. "Of course, Sub-Commander. As I told the Captain, I would not propose it lightly. But these are difficult times, we can not simply return to Earth to replace Mr Tucker and I would consider him a lynchpin member of this crew. Desperate times call for desperate solutions, wouldn't you agree?" The look he gives her suggests the question is rhetorical.

She's not very good at rhetorical questions, because she usually answers them. Worse, her answer often contradicts the asker's seemingly foregone conclusion. She has learned the body language cues that tend to accompany them but considers it an illogical practice to ask a question when you are looking for a specific answer and are not interested in opposing views. People usually don't like her answers. This time she does not answer, despite her misgivings about the Doctor's reasoning. It does not occur to her that it may be because she does not like the answer.

The Doctor places the scanner on the cart next to the biobed where she sits and returns his full attention to her health. "Your neuralitic enzymes are within the satisfactory range and I am not detecting any traces of trellium in your system or discernible degradation of you neural pathways." He joins his hands in front of him, rocks back slightly on his heels then rises on his toes. "You are in excellent health, Sub-Commander, all things considered." His accompanying smile lacks its usual width. "Of course, I need not tell you to maintain a strict course of meditation and sleep, under the current circumstances your role on the ship has become even more crucial with Commander Tucker's condition so uncertain."

"She nods in response, gets off the biobed and departs sickbay with out a backward glance. No one on board, who saw her stiff back and fixed expression would think it any deviation from the norm. Only she knew how much of her will power it took not to go and stand at the bedside of her dying crewmate and look for a trace of the man that he had been. He was brain dead, it was illogical to stare at his unconscious face and indulge in the hope that a spark of the man might remain.

* * *

**Day** **3**

She finds Lieutenant Hess crying in the Reactor Circuitry Bay.

With Commander Tucker gone, crew morale is back under her purview. Technically, as First Officer, it never left her purview but no one on board even pretended she had been fulfilling that function. She has never shied away from her responsibilities in the past so she stands stiffly before Hess and asks her if she requires any assistance.

Hess sniffs rather loudly, runs the sleeve of her jumpsuit over her dripping nose and looks up at T'Pol with puffy, red rimmed eyes. "I'm okay here, Sub-Commander. The damage in this area isn't extensive. I should be done in about 90 minutes."

"I was not referring to your work Lieutenant, I am confident in your ability to assess the situation here and requisition support if you require it." T'Pol takes a deep breath and shifts her weight from foot to foot. "Rather, I noted you are somewhat discomposed and I was offering to support you emotionally."

Hess's eyes widen and she blinks slowly. "I'm sorry, Sub-Commander. I guess my feelings got the better of me." Hess wipes her eyes with the same sleeve she had wiped her nose with only moments before. T'Pol schools herself not to think about it.

Hess, seemingly oblivious to the hygiene implications of repeatedly using her clothing as a handkerchief, continues tentatively. "I just... well, I was thinking about Trip.. I mean, Commander Tucker. Yesterday Phlox was telling us he was going to die, and today he's got some miracle way that might save him, but we won't know for more than a week, and it might not work, and I'm 2IC, and..." Hess looks down at her hands and takes deep breath. "What will we do if he dies?" She almost whispers.

T'Pol cants her head slightly and mentally reviews the Lieutenant's stream of consciousness. She decides Hess must be concerned about her ability to perform As Chief Engineer should Commander Tucker fail to recover. She is confident she can address this concern.

"You have proved yourself to be a competent engineer, Lieutenant Hess. Commander Tucker has consistently reported his confidence in your engineering and leadership skills during your performance reviews. There is no reason to believe you will not perform adequately as Chief Engineer of Enterprise should circumstances require it."

Hess draws in another deep breath, presses her lips together and nods. "Thank you, Sub-Commander," she says flatly and turns back to her work without looking back up at T'Pol.

Later, in the mess hall she overhears Hess relating the conversation to Crewman Kelly and Ensign Sato. They are aware of her proximity and their voices are lowered but even after two and a half years they still have not grasp just how sensitive her hearing really is.

"Sub-Commander T'Pol offered to talk with you about your feelings?" Even with her limited experience of emotions, T'Pol can identify the incredulity in Crewman Kelly's voice.

"Yes, as she'd just found me sobbing all over a circuit board she obviously decided she needed to comfort me for the good of the ship."

"And did you?" Kelly prompts.

"Did I what?"

"Talk about your feelings, ya doofus,"

Hess snots with laughter. "Well I talked about something. I think I came over with a terminal case of verbal diarrhoea and blurted some crap about what we would do if Trip died."

"What did she say to that?" Kelly asks.

Hess snots again, this time not with laughter. "She told me I would be adequate as Chief."

"Ouch," Kelly replies. "Talk about dammed by faint praise."

I know it sounds bad, but for Vulcans calling someone adequate is high praise." Lieutenant Sato speaks up for the first time. "There are no degrees of ability on Vulcan. You can either do the job or or you can't. T'Pol was actually expressing her confidence in your abilities."

"Yeah, on an intellectual level I know that." Hess sighs. "It just wasn't what I needed from her. To be honest, I know I can do the job. I'm a damn good engineer and, I think, a pretty decent leader. I've been working towards being a Chief my whole career. I don't need T'Pol to tell me I can do it. It's not about the job, it's..."

Hess tails off, for some reason unable to finish the statement. If she wasn't Vulcan T'Pol would have been frustrated. How can she improve her crew interactions if even they are unable to verbalise their emotions.

"Yeah, I know, it's Trip, he's... special." Hoshi responds quietly

"Special," Hess scoffs. He's one in a million, one in billion. He's a fricken Faberge Egg. Once he's gone..." Hess' voice breaks and she's unable to finish.

The other two say nothing. T'Pol can hear sniffing and assumes it indicates more crying on the part of all three women. She reflects on what she has just heard. She can remember every word exchanged between her and Hess in the Reactor Circuit Bay and even adding the information from the overheard conversation, she still can't fathom what Hess required from her.

She looks up Faberge Eggs on her PADD and is impressed by their beauty and artistry but considers them completely without purpose and entirely illogical. Was Hess suggesting Commander Tucker was attractive but illogical? She is not sure if she disagrees with that conclusion or not. The eggs are unique, but every person is unique. She wonders if Hess is referring to the clone currently gestating in Doctor Phlox's lab. Do they feel that cloning Trip violates his uniqueness? If she hadn't been Vulcan she would have sighed. She still feels no better informed about the source of her failure in her interaction with Lieutenant Hess than she did at the time.

She places the PADD on the table in front of her and ponders, once again, the moral implications of the clone. Should she have been more emphatic with Phlox and the Captain about her objections. Did she really even object or did she just feel obliged to provide an ethical perspective which she knew to be logical. She looks again at the picture of the diamond studded egg and the tiny jewelled replica of a pre-industrial horse drawn vehicle and she knows, a copy would never be the same as the real thing.

The invisible band around her chest tightens.

* * *

**Day** **4**

After three days of secretly wanting any excuse to go to sick bay she is now determined to avoid going there at all cost. One encounter with the infant copy of the Commander was more than enough to satisfy any curiosity she may have been suppressing. While she has a strong urge, desperately suppressed, to see the prostrate original; with Sim, as he has been named, in occupation she is resolved to avoid sickbay and the possibility of confronting the ghost of the man in the face of the child.

The feelings, about the clone, about Commander Tucker crowd her consciousness refusing to be either expressed or repressed. It is fortunate Vulcans can survive for long periods of time on very little sleep. Her inability to meditate satisfactorily, which has continued since the first day of the accident, means attempts at sleep are futile.

She is beginning to dream again. Terrifying scenes of nonsense haunt the few moments of sleep she does manage to achieve which only makes her reluctant to attempt sleep even if she is able to achieve it.

Unwilling to further experience the disturbing nocturnal meanders of her mind, she gets up and begins working

Her mind wanders, which is disturbing in itself. The discipline she once exerted over mind and body seems to be slipping. She can keep her physical form from sick bay but her cerebral self returns there seemingly with a will of its own.

If she exerts what little discipline she seems to have left on her physical restraint, her focus slips. If she concentrates on mental discipline she begins to fidget, her fingers tapping on a surface, or running obsessively over a seam in her uniform, or flicking a nail against a dry cuticle.

She wants to groan and run her hands through her hair, bang her head against the surface of the desk, sweep the contents of the desk on to the floor, she wants to rage. She remembers what is was like, on the Selaya, all her discipline gone, it was not a release. The emotions did not burst like a firework then fade, but poured from her continuously, ceaselessly, like lava on the fire plains consuming every part of her they touched. She had seen Niagra Falls and realised now why it was so disquieting to her. It was like unfettered Vulcan emotions: implacable, unrelenting, inescapable.

She does not succumb to the wave. She has a lifetime of discipline to call on. She breathes and pushes the emotions down. She is Vulcan. This will not defeat her.

She can't help but think that, if Commander Tucker were here, he could help her. He knows how to administer enough neuro-pressure postures that he could, if present, if able, if conscious, assist her in releasing the physical manifestations of the emotions she is struggling to suppress.

She knows if she was amongst Vulcans she would be supported, if not understood. A Vulcan healer would be able comprehend the magnitude of what she was experiencing. She would be assisted, treated like she was suffering an illness. In the same way that she cannot fathom Lieutenant Hess' human emotional needs, her shipmates cannot understand her Vulcan ones. Even Dr. Phlox, with all his training and knowledge, does not fully appreciate the significance of a Vulcan struggling with emotions.

She gets up and goes to engineering. There is always work to do. She will hide from her troubles in work. As she walks the halls, concentrating on keeping her feet moving towards Engineering she remembers a quote Commander Tucker told her once.

Idle hands are the devil's workshop.

Tonight, she truly understands what that means.

XX


	2. Days 5-6

**Day** **5**

She is in the EPS Manifold switching out blown relays. It is a repetitive task that requires little thought or attention. A task, usually assigned to a junior crew member, that she often found Commander Tucker doing.

"I don't mind doing it," he told her once when she questioned the efficiency of the most senior engineer on the ship doing a task that could be completed by a first year apprentice. "My fingers know the work so well I can just switch my mind off and do the job without thinking." He didn't even pause in the task as he talked to her. "It's a good job for when I'm feeling a bit antsy, keeps my fingers busy but lets my brain rest."

It is only now, when she assigns the task to herself, that she realises that what he was doing was, in effect, meditating. With her fingers busy on a menial task, she focuses on her mind, tamping down on the emotions that seem to flow from gaps in her once disciplined brain like sand through fingers. For the first time in days she is able to find a peace, of sorts, as her brain recites the the steps like a mantra and her fingers march to the cadence.

"Look, just do it Masaro. Don't complain about it." The strident tones of Crewman Rostov ring through the newly opened door, breaking her out of her rhythm.

"This is a waste of my time, I trained as a warp injector specialist, I should be working on those." The reply, which she assumes comes from Ensign Masaro, follows.

She hesitates, as First Officer, she believes she should intervene, but she is stifled by a sudden insecurity after her unsuccessful interaction with Lieutenant Hess. The relative calm that she had finally achieved is gone in moments. When did she lose confidence in her ability to do her job?

"Masaro," Rostov sighs in response. "We're under the gun here. Right now there's a full team of people working on the injectors and you're not needed there. I need this job done, and it goes to my boot-ensign, which is you!"

She acknowledges to herself that she is being ridiculous. She has dealt with situations like this a multitude of times since joining Enterprise. She puts down her tools starts to rise as Masaro's voice rings through the space.

"I may be a boot-Ensign, but I'm still an Ensign which means I outrank you."

"Commander Tucker assigned you my team, Masaro. That means you go where I tell you to, right now, that's here." She could hear the pitch in Rostov's voice rising and his words were becoming more clipped. She knew from experience this indicated anger and that her intervention would be required.

"Well, I haven't seen him around lately, so maybe that order doesn't still stand."

She feels her stomach tighten at Masaro's words and notices Rostov clench his fists and jaw at the same time.

"Is there a problem here Mr Rostov?" She deliberately chooses to address Rostov, indicating that she considers him the senior crew member. She knows the two humans will detect no emotion in her voice or bearing. To them she would be as steady and emotionless as ever. But she knows a Vulcan would spot her disquiet immediately and disdain her for it. She can't decide what is worse, someone identifying her struggle, or no one seeing it. She has a suspicion Commander Tucker would know. He always seemed more tuned to her emotions, even in the early days when he used the knowledge to provoke her.

Masaro won't look at her. She doesn't know why.

"No, Ma'am. Just giving Ensign Masaro his assignment

She understands this dance, at least. Commander Tucker has explained it to her. There is a strange kind of logic to it. She can not order Masaro to listen to Rostov, because that would undermine Rostov's authority, which is tenuous at best under the circumstances. But by only addressing Rostov she is showing that she considers him the senior of the two.

Before she can say anything further Lieutenant Hess sweeps into the room looking at a PADD clutched in her hand, a smudge of dirt on her cheek and a stray hair dropping in her face. She doesn't so much as as glance at them before launching into instructions.

"Masaro, what are you standing around for, you're meant to be working with Sub-Commander T'Pol replacing the blown relays. Rostov, I need you to get onto that second stage plasma accelerator ASAP."

She looks up for the first time and seems to register some tension.

"Is there some problem I _don't_ want to know about?" She directs the question to Rostov.

"Nope," Rostov responds with false cheer. "Tommy was just about to get started, weren't you?"

Masaro, now clearly outranked, doesn't answer but but turns on his heel and starts walking towards the relays. As he moves he mutters something under his breath. Most of the words are indistinguishable but she catches "Tucker" and "Vulcan whore".

Rostov's winces and flicks a glance at her before catching Hess' eye. Hess snots as she rolls her eyes and gives him a slight shake of the head. "Masaro!" She calls out to the departing Ensign. "You might want to check your attitude in front of three senior crew members, who all contribute to your performance review."

Masaro starts and turns quickly back to them when he realises that at least some of his comments may have been overheard. He shoots a worried glance in T'Pol's direction, the first time he's looked directly at her since she joined the discussion with him and Rostov.

"Yes, ma'am," He replies softly and turns back to his assignment.

T'Pol is puzzled. She can see Rostov an Hess looking at each other. They seem to be having a silent conversation that she can't comprehend.

She is not overly concerned by Masaro's comment. She faced far greater hostility from all the crew when she first came on board Enterprise, two and a half years before and she is not surprised when she encounters it from the new crew members. Commander Tucker had warned her there had been gossip about the nature of their relationship but she had brushed it off as irrelevant, which she still maintains.

She wonders if she is missing something. There is an undercurrent that she can't decipher. In the past Commander Tucker would have decoded any emotional content of crew interactions if he felt she needed to know. She had come to trust his judgement as to when it was necessary to inform her of issues and when it was irrelevant to her. But Commander Tucker isn't here and she is alone, becalmed in a sea of human emotion with no way to fathom it.

* * *

**Day** **6**

The new day brings an end to her need to avoid sickbay when she finally meets the clone she has been so determined to avoid. He, quite literally, runs into her as she rounds a corner on her way from completing repairs on an EPS junction near the port side, third stage plasma accelerator. The box of EPS Ribbon she is carrying is knocked to the floor, its contents spelling from the carton. She watches as a reel rolls across the deck, unraveling as it goes.

"Sorry, sorry sorry." As he chants his apology, the child, who she calculates would be the the Earth equivalent of an 8 or 9 year old, immediately goes to the floor, sweeps up a handful of unwinding reels and dumps them in the carton, tangling them further in the process and starts to reach for another.

She puts her hand over his arm to halt his action and prevent further disorder. He startles at her touch and looks into her face for the first time. His eyes widen as he abruptly drops the reels in his hands and jumps back from her, then stands and regards her nervously.

"You're a Vulcan," he tells her, rather pointlessly.

"Indeed," she replies as she bends to pick up a reel and begin the process of disentangling its contents from its neighbours and rewinding it. "I am aware of what species I am."

"My Daddy says Vulcans are interfering auto... automatos and trying to prevent Earth from progressing." He folds his arms and looks sternly at her as he speaks.

"I believe the word you are looking for is 'automatons'," she tells him blandly.

"That's what I said." He nods sagely at her correction. "Daddy says you're trying to prevent us from developing our warp capabilities and exploring space. He says it's your fault Henry Archer hasn't gotten his engine to fly yet."

She looks up at him impassively. "And yet, here you are, in space, on an Earth ship with a warp five engine designed by Henry Archer and a Vulcan crew member." She raises a typical Vulcan eyebrow as she says it.

In response he narrows his eyebrows and presses his lips in a way that is so reminiscent of Trip that she has the illogical urge to rip the DNA from his very cells. How dare this... creature stand here recalling his memories, speaking with his accent, reproducing his mannerisms, expressing his genes...

All of a sudden he changes from hostile prepubescent to eager child. He crouches down next to her, picks up a reel and begins to wind the ribbon back onto it. "Sorry about your stuff, it's a bit of a mess. What is this anyway?"

She retreats to her Vulcan facade, determined not to show this adolescent version of Commander Tucker just how unsettled she is. "It is known as EPS Ribbon. Despite its fragile, fabric like appearance, it is actually a very strong, flexible, nanopolymer tube, that is used to transport plasma as part of the EPS grid. EPS refers to the Electro-plasma system, which..."

"I know what the EPS grid is," he interrupts her cheerfully as he puts a wound reel into the carton and picks up another to begin winding.

"Is it true that Vulcans have green blood," He asks, quite randomly changing the subject, looking up her eagerly.

"It is true. Human blood is red due to your iron based Haemoglobin, which is involved oxygen transportation. Vulcans have copper based Haemocyanins."

"Horseshoe crabs have copper based blood, but their blood is blue." He stops winding as he says it and gives her a challenging look. There is so much of Commander Tucker in his manner, it is impossible not to respond.

"Vulcan blood has extremely high levels of a compound that is very similar to biliverdin and bilirubin in Earth vertebrates. These yellow and green compounds, in concert with the blue Hemocyanins result in the green colour".

He narrows his eyes and rolls his tongue around his around his cheek as he processes the information. "So," he looks up at her earnestly, "does green mean go and red mean stop on Vulcan too?"

Before she can even begin to process the leap of reasoning that would take a human child from the colour of Vulcan blood to the colour of Vulcan traffic lights, she hears his name being called through the halls, accompanied by the sound of heavy footfalls.

"Oops, I reckon I'd better skedaddle."

She doesn't have so much as a chance to formulate a hypothesis on the meaning of "skedaddle", before he is thrusts the half wound reel into her empty hand and races off down the hall. Which is how Corporal Hawkins finds her when he comes striding round the corner.

He stops abruptly, eyes wide, at the sight of her, kneeling amongst the mess of unwound ribbon and empty reels, bends down to pick up the reel that had rolled across the deck and begins to rewind it as he walks towards her.

"I sense the fine hand of young Sim in this mess," he says apologetically as he hands her the reel.

"He is... somewhat energetic."

Hawkins snorts, "He's a menace. Phlox asked me to watch him for an hour, he dismantled my phase riffle while I was getting orders from Hayes and took off while I was reassembling it." He crouches down in front of her, picks up another reel and begins to wind it while he talks.

"It appears he is, by his nature, quite curious. It is likely he wanted to understand how your weapon worked."

Hawkins sighs in response and hands her another rewound reel. "Sorry to leave you with this mess, Ma'am, but I had better go hunt him down before he follows that curiosity to engineering and dismantles the warp core."

She is left again, now holding four reels, stranded amongst the remaining mess of equipment, watching the Corporal stride away.

She is somewhat surprised by how natural and relaxed Hawkins was with her. Most of the MACO's display a certain caution around her, which seems typical for humans who have little or no prior experience with Vulcans. After the incident on the Seleya and her catastrophic loss of emotional control, which demonstrated the violent proclivities of Vulcan emotion, she has expected his wariness to have increased, but it appears that the opposite is true.

In fact, it is her second interaction with him where she has been surprised by his willingness to engage her. She has not reflected greatly on their prior encounter, which occurred in the weeks subsequent to the events of Seleya, while she was still recovering from the emotional ruin that was the result of the trellium-d exposure. She has disciplined herself not to reflect on that period, as though just remembering the emotions will bring them all to the surface.

Although she had been cleared for duty she had still been struggling with the residual emotions and had avoided most crew interactions outside of duty. It had been a difficult time for her, fighting so desperately against the feelings unleashed by the alien compound, never sure how she would react to situations and unable to name or understand the emotions she had never been taught to identify or process.

She had encountered Corporal Hawkins in the mess hall when she had gone to obtain some food at an impossibly late hour, in the hope of avoiding human contact. Even without the trellium poisoning she would have been able to identify that he was unsettled by something, but her lack of emotional control had decimated her usual reserve and before she could stop herself she had asked him what troubled him. His reply had unleashed a stampede of emotion that had, doubtlessly, coloured her reply.

When he confessed that he was uneasy about their decision to destroy the Seleya and its crew, she should have, would have under normal circumstances, responded with the logical answer: referencing the terminal levels of trellium exposure in the crew, the inability of Enterprise to provide palliative care to a ship load of emotional, dying Vulcans, the necessity of the boarding party to urgently escape the broken ship and it's doomed crew.

Instead she spoke of her own guilt: for her lack of control which jeopardised the mission, for surviving when so many of her former colleagues had not, for not preventing their deaths, for trying to prevent their deaths and thereby endangering her Enterprise crewmates. There had been no logic in her answer, only feeling. But Hawkins did not seem unsatisfied with her answer, in fact, he seemed reassured by it.

"I guess it should never feel right to take another person's life, no matter what the circumstances," he commented quietly before getting up from his chair and leaving the mess hall.

For the first time she realises, in retrospect, that she also had been strangely comforted by the exchange. That, even though, at the time, she had completely resisted the emotions she experienced, the latter part of her recovery had not been the terrifying, overwhelming experience that had characterised the earliest days of her exposure. That, as the compound had purged from her system, the rage and fear and paranoia had gone with it.

In its stead she had been left with a range of more gentle emotions: curiosity during gossip sessions and amusement from the idle repartee during lulls on the bridge, fascination from the plots and relationships portrayed at movie night, satisfaction at solving a problem, pleasure from a good meal, a zinging attraction between herself and Commander Tucker during neuro-pressure sessions... Like her interaction with Corporal Hawkins, her interpersonal exchanges had been less jarring when her logic was tempered with small doses of feeling. Niceties she'd never bothered with in the past had slipped into her language. She had expressed her gratitude when her staff had done a good job, her amusement at their jokes, her interest in their lives. They had responded in kind, but had worked harder for her when they perceived that she cared.

Even the negative emotions had not overwhelmed her, just added a new dimension to her experience. Everything had seemed more colourful, painted with a coat of emotion. No wonder humans were so resistant to the dull, grey of Vulcan logic, when their emotions gave such a bright, glossy lacquer to all their experiences.

She feels a sudden uncharacteristic longing for that briefly experienced ability to feel her emotions, but not be completely overwhelmed by them. She thinks of her recent interactions with Hess, Rostov and Masaro and knows she would not have been so perplexed if she could have accessed her own emotions during the exchanges. Then she thinks of Commander Tucker, lying prone in sickbay, possibly to never return to them, and his juvenile doppelgänger roaming the halls of Enterprise and she wonders, with uncharacteristic emotional honesty, if she truly does want to know what she feels about that.

She looks down at the tangled mess of equipment for a moment before sweeping it all up in bundle and depositing it back in the box. She does not need it right now and there are more pressing matters for her to attend to. Logic dictates she should deal with it at a later date, when the current situation is resolved.

XX


	3. Day 7-9

**Day** **7**

Sim is there, in Engineering, an adolescent now, hanging awkwardly between childhood and adulthood. A brief enough period for humans as it is, that will be over for him by the end of the day.

He shows great interest in the repairs, looking over crew members' shoulders as they work, Asking questions and offering surprisingly insightful suggestions, but nonetheless interrupting the focus and work flow of the crew.

The Captain suggests to T'Pol and Hess that they put Sim to work. T'Pol does not answer, she does not herself understand her reluctance to interact with Sim, so she has no way to explain it to the Captain.

She gives Sim the box of tangled EPS ribbon to sort. He groans, curls his lip and rolls his eyes in response. Hess shakes her head and mutters that she thought she would at least be from safe petulant teens in space. The Captain just laughs.

"Welcome to the big league, Son. Even you have to start at the bottom." Archer slaps a hand on Sim's shoulder as he says it and leaves Engineering.

T'Pol had hoped that he would take his assignment to sickbay or the mess hall or anywhere else, and leave her in peace to do do her work. Instead he sits himself on the desk next to her work station and begins to pull the mess apart in a somewhat unenthusiastic and desultory manner.

His mind is clearly not occupied by the task as he keeps up a near ceaseless patter of anecdotes originating from both, his borrowed life from Trip, and his actual life on Enterprise. Some of the stories she's heard before: the dining table, the Vulcan biology teacher, the dismantled phase riffle, among others. Others are completely new insights into the recreational activities of a teenaged earth male that, she suspects, were deliberately withheld by Trip as they are not the kinds of adolescent exploits that would necessarily impress a mature woman.

Eventually she manages to force his empty chatter to background noise while she concentrates on plans for the primary port bypass. So much so that she doesn't even notice when he goes silent. The feel of his cool, damp breath on her neck, as he looks over her shoulder at the diagrams, startles her from deliberations.

"If you move the dorsal aperture forward, you'll be able to slot a waveguide in behind it," he tells her absentmindedly as he reaches in front of her to tap the screen and alter the drawing accordingly.

She steps away abruptly, his similarities to Trip, and more starkly, his differences, unsettling her in ways she can not begin to comprehend.

They engage in a brief discussion of the design which serves to illustrate that he has all Trip's flair for innovation and a good portion of his knowledge. So she downloads the data onto a PADD and sends him away to work on it while she gets to work on assembling a directional intermix collector.

The box of still tangled EPS ribbon sits forgotten next to her on the desk, until it gets in her way. Then she places it on the floor and pushes it out of her way, into the far corner under the desk, with the tip of her foot.

* * *

**Day** **8**

Her white space is dark. Dark, damp and confined. She shivers, even though she is not cold. She does not understand this place. It takes her a moment to realise she is in a cave. She turns slowly, examining the cavern with her dispassionate eye and realises it is familiar, as familiar as a cave could be at any rate. It is, she believes, the cave that the away team had sheltered in when a storm had forced them from their campsite during a landing party in the earliest months of their first mission of exploration. She is not sure how she knows this, as it is not exactly the same as her recollections, nevertheless she does know with certainty it is the cave from the planet.

She spies a movement in her periphery and starts to follow it but stops abruptly when two humanoid figures emerge from the rocks, then disappear into them again. She can feel her heart pounding just below her ribs, her muscles tensing, the small hairs on her arm standing on end, her breath rate increasing: all natural physiological responses to a fearful situation, unless you're a Vulcan.

Her senses on alert, she catches another movement on the edge of her vision and turns abruptly to face a potential threat. Instead she sees a tall, blue jumpsuited figure, with blonde hair, retreating down a tunnel.

Trip!

She follows him without giving it a second thought. Walking purposely through the dark indistinct tunnels. The physical signs of fear continue and she moves quickly to avoid eye contact with the aliens moving around her.

Her Vulcan discipline reasserts itself suddenly and she realises that she is no longer in the cave but is now walking through the trading complex on Rigel X. The Aliens which seemed to be the source of her feelings of nervousness are strangely unformed and indistinct.

She strives for some logical explanation for her situation. She was meditating, trying to meditate, at any rate, so she should be in her white space. While she does have the ability to manipulate her mental space, she knows she did not deliberately conjure these scene from her imagination. The transforming and vaguely rendered environment along with the emotional atmosphere have the characteristics of a dream. But she is strangely lucid and yet, at the same time, detached from what she is seeing and feeling, both of which are inconsistent with previous dream experiences.

A feeling of disquiet comes over her, never before in her life has she fallen asleep while meditating which would indicate a serous loss of physical discipline. At the same time, if she is in a meditational state, her apparent lack of control over her psychic space and discrepancies between her memories and mental manifestations signals a catastrophic loss of phrenic discipline.

She looks around trying to bring more clarity to the environment and people around her but everything remains indistinct. She wanders, trying to make some sense of her situation and eventually realises she is in the waiting room outside Central Security. She notices a figure in an Enterprise uniform and starts towards him but is arrested by the site of a Lorillian woman weaning her son. She doesn't even stop to question why these two figures are so clear but begins to rush over to intervene. She stops herself just before reaching the pair and wonders, whether this is a dream or not, why she would consider interfering in the biological processes of a alien race.

She turns back to the Enterprise crew member only to find she is now in the Engineering room of the crashed Kantare ship, which, with its crew of holograms, that Enterprise had assisted in the first year of their mission. She turns abruptly and leaves the room. She does not want to be in this reality and she especially does not want an imaginary encounter with Liana, who had been very real, and very interesting to Trip two years before.

An Enterprise crew member disappears around a corner and she follows, catching glimpses of him every now and again. She can tell from his gait it is Trip. No matter how fast she goes he remains ahead, always just disappearing around a corner or through a door. Eventually her chase leads to the airponics room, where she finds Liana. A hazy, indistinct Liana, eating a bowl of ice cream.

T'Pol turns and walks away.

She pushes through the lush vegetation and peers into the darkness. It reminds her of the rain forests in New Zealand.

She's never been to New Zealand.

When she arrives at the Eska campsite the fire is still burning. She goes to the entrance of one of the tents and crawls inside. Within, it's hot, and dry, and bright, she can hear rhythmic thrum of the deuterium pumps. She exits the tent and heads to the edge of the camp. She can see a blond head moving at a run through the crevice on the hillside. She chases after him.

Jumping into the crevice, she lands in the Catacombs at P'Jem and follows a retreating Trip to a modern hatch set into the stone wall, she swings it open and steps onto the nacelle catwalk on the Enterprise. The space is deserted, there are no signs of Trip or any other crew members, a movie is playing; Frankenstein.

She takes a seat and watches for a short time before she remembers that this is not why she is here. She is looking for Trip and she knows exactly where he is.

She gets up and leaves the deserted mess hall to go to him.

She stands in front of the curtain in Sick Bay and does what she has refused to do for seven days and pushes it aside. He is lying on the biobed, conscious and dressed in his full uniform with his hands on his stomach and his booted ankles crossed. He raises his eyebrows and curls the corner of his mouth.

She knows she must be dreaming. She wants to go to him, grab his hand and press it to her face, but she does not trust the dream, it seems to want to keep him out of reach.

He raises himself up on his elbows and speaks.

"Where the hell have you been? I've been looking for you everywhere." The irritated drawl of the Chief Engineer brings a strange kind of comfort but she decides to ignore him, it seems somewhat illogical to enter a conversation with a figment of her imagination.

"Well, are you planning to answer me or am I talking to myself?" He insists.

It occurs to her there is very little that is logical about dreams.

"I have been extremely busy overseeing the repairs to Enterprise," She tells him calmly.

He sits up, puts his hands on his hips and looks at her. "Busy, huh. Hoshi's found time, so has Malcolm, Travis, and Anna, the Captain... I've even been visited by myself, which is weird, but not you!"

She faces him with all the calm she does not feel. "It is illogical to visit a person who is, to all intents and purposes, brain dead. My presence, or lack thereof, at your bedside will not alter your condition or affect my perception of it."

His face changes from hostile to confused. "T'Pol, I don't understand this. What the hell is happening to me?"

She stares at him, wide eyed. She would not know how to comfort Trip in real life, she has less idea about what she should offer this dream version of him.

"This is a dream," She tells him. "I don't understand it either."

He gives her a soft smile, so like the one she has often seen during neuropressure sessions. "Well, whatever it is." He puts his elbows on his knees, leans forward and looks at his hands "It's better now that your here."

The space has changed again. It is dark and decaying and pressing down on her. It is the antithesis of her white space which has been carefully fashioned to feel clean and immeasurable. No matter how big the feeling there, it diluted to nothing by the infinity of the location. In this black space, she feels trapped and confined and all the emotions seem to press against her. So many she can't even name them.

And there is Trip who seems to need something from her but she doesn't know what.

"Why is it so important that you see me?" She asks him, eyes wide.

He looks up at her frankly. "Because you're pretty much all I think about."

The pips of the comm system jolt her to alertness. She is in her quarters alone, kneeling on her meditation cushion, in front of a lit candle. She answers the comm, it's Lieutenant Hess, she is needed in Engineering.

She still can't discern with any certainty if she was meditating or sleeping. Whichever it was, it has served her no useful purpose in either capacity.

There is a tightness in her chest and her breath judders as she inhales.

She gets up and goes to Engineering.

* * *

**Day** **9**

When she sees him in the mess hall that morning she leaves immediately. Yesterday he still had some of the softness of childhood, even though he was technically an adult, and it was still possible to maintain the notion that he was a separate entity, his own person, even if he displayed shades of the archetype. Now, the child is completely gone and the man that remains is indistinguishable from the original and she does not know how to be around him.

She heads towards Engineering hoping to regain her equilibrium by losing herself in the work but knowing that he will be there soon, with his unending chatter and his stolen zest for life. Her feet betray her though.

Yes, she means to go to Engineering. But her feet take her right, when they should go straight ahead. And they lead her to sickbay, where his progenitor lies. And she's not even disturbed anymore, by her mind not seeming to be in control of her body. Because, really, this is where she wants to be.

Vulcans do not want.

She stands in front of the curtain, just like she did in the dream that was not a dream. Then she pushes it aside, and it is not like the dream.

There is no wry smile, none of his fizzing energy and drawled vowels. Just a body, under a sheet, with neural monitors and life support. It's exactly why she has not come before. Because he is not really here.

She considers touching him. It would be so easy. Just close the distance between the curtain and the bed. Just a few steps, nothing really.

She has touched him so many times before. Once more should not make a difference. But she is uncertain of what she would perceive, or worse, not perceive.

She closes the curtain and goes to Engineering.

XX


	4. Day 10 and 11

**Day** **10**

Later, after his copy visits her, and leans against her cupboard, and echos her dream so closely...

Later, when she flees her room because she has to be somewhere else, anywhere else, other than the place where she can find no peace...

Later when the band around her chest, and the lump in throat is joined by the the feeling that her skin is too tight and her bones too big, she almost goes to sickbay again.

But her feet take her somewhere else altogether.

She's in cargo bay 2, kneeling in front of a particular crate before she is even aware of her destination, or her intention.

It seems her feet know her mind better than she does.

Because it has become untenable.

Because there is no one else to help her and nothing else.

Because she can't sleep or meditate, she can barely breathe.

Because she has to do something.

When the time comes to account for her actions, she will only remember that she wanted.

She does not know how far removed the memory of a feeling is from the experience of one.

She will not remember feeling as though she was crawling out of her own skin. She will not remember that she could not fill her lungs sufficiently to breathe. She will not remember that she could not organise her thoughts enough to argue against herself taking this action. She will not remember her cultural isolation, the lack of comrades who could truly understand the seriousness of her situation. She will not remember, that in this moment, it had finally become untenable, and she had to act, and this seemed like the only option.

She will only remember that she wanted.

It will not occur to her that she needed to find some solution.

Vulcans _do_ need.

When the time comes to account for her actions she will look to this as her moment of greatest failure. She will never consider the part that others have played in her downfall.

The Dr, who, distracted by other worries, did not understand the importance of her symptoms and as a consequence, did not ask the right questions.

The Captain, who pushed her boundaries

Trip, who pushed her feelings.

Her mother, who pushed her away...

But also her people, with their disdain for weakness and their absolute rigidity. Because living amongst a species who value flexibility and view mistakes as an appropriate way to learn, she has been made vulnerable.

Because a refusal to acknowledge weakness is a weakness in its own right.

Because if an excess of pressure is applied to something that cannot bend, then it can only break.

Even if she is ever able acknowledge these points, she certainly does not do so now. Instead she opens the crate, she removes a canister, she unscrews the lid, she tips some of the contents into her hand.

The effect is instantaneous.

She gasps, then a juddering sob emits from her throat. She clutches her hands to her stomach and bends forward until her forehead is pressed into the edge of the crate. The canister and it's poisonous ore roll across the floor forgotten.

Tears roll down her cheeks, taking her emotions with them.

She cries for Trip, who may never come back; for Sim, who loves her with a passion not his own; for the Doctor who created him, for the Captain who allowed it; for herself, for not preventing it.

She cries for everything she has suffered: the terrifying psychic invasions, the dragging weight of chronic illness, the loss of faith in her government, her own loss of status amongst her people.

She remains folded over, crying silently, with her head on the edge of the crate until her eyes feel gritty and there is a line impressed on her forehead.

When it ends she has no concept of how much time has passed but she is aware of certain stillness in her mind and body that she has not experienced for 10 days.

She picks up the discarded trellium and puts it back in the canister, then returns the canister to its create and closes the lid.

With that complete, she settles in front of the crate and slips easily into a full and healing state of meditation.

* * *

**Day** **11**

She is back in sickbay again, this time by design. Her emotions' design of course. She sighs slightly. For all that the last 24 hours have been far more settled for her than the previous 10 days put together, emotions are capricious things and the uncertainty of where they will lead her grates against her logical mind.

She feels a little like there are two people residing in her body, the logical Vulcan who questions her presence here in sickbay, again, for the second day in a row; and the emotional creature she has unleashed, who knows there is nowhere else she should be.

She wonders how humans manage this dichotomy. She has observed they are capable of reasoning but she cannot comprehend how they integrate their emotions into their logic or vice versa. It feels like there is a war being fought for dominion over all the separate parts her body. Evidence suggests emotions have won her feet.

The Doctor looks up when she walks in but turns immediately back to his work, assuming, correctly, that she is here to see Trip. His presumption, although accurate, grates on her. She is the last person on the ship who should visit the comatose, no matter who it is.

"You are one of a long line of friends and colleagues who have visited him today, Sub-Commander. One supposes it is a show of support," he sighs "or a last expression of affection, should events not pan out as predicted. Perhaps I should feel insulted at this shipwide display of doubt in my skills."

Her stomach contracts at the, hitherto unspoken, fact that the procedure may not be successful.

"There is the possibility of failure in even the most simple of surgeries," She tells him blandly. "Given that the procedure you intend to to perform is far from simple it is logical to assume there is a certain probability of an undesirable outcome and prepare in case it should become the reality." Emotion may have dominion over her feet but logic still rules her face and tongue.

The Doctor stops his work but does not look up. "Given the already high cost of the surgery, you may be assured, Sub-Commander, that I would not proceed unless I had some certainty of success."

"I have every confidence in your skills, Doctor."

The Doctor grunts but says nothing in return so she moves to the curtained area Trip occupies.

He is still there, as unconscious as he was the day before. Nothing has changed, except her. She is different. And visiting him today feels completely different, because she feels.

She wants to touch him, she is afraid of touching him. Her logic and her emotions lob arguments at her from both sides. She is not even sure which faction is fighting for which outcome. She stands in front of the bed and tries to make sense of which are her needs and which are her desires. Eventually she realises that if she does not act now, in this moment, and the surgery is a failure, that she will have missed her last chance.

She steps forward and places her hand on his bare skin above the sheet. She has no words to describe her relief, because she has never been provided words to describe any emotions, but relief is what she feels. Because he is still there. She had been afraid, so very afraid, that the doctor had been keeping alive a shell, a husk, and that what truly makes Trip what he is, had gone.

But she can sense his soul, it is faint and faded beneath her fingers, but there nonetheless. Such a pale glimmer of the whole person, She had not fully comprehended how brightly he burned until he was all but extinguished.

She wants to lay down beside him, press her face into crook of his neck and meditate on that flicker of remaining soul. She wants to bend over and press her lips against his and beg him to come back.

But she does neither. She is still Vulcan after all. That and the fact that her slight brush with trellium the day before is already starting to wear off. Instead she stands by his bed with her hand over his heart and confronts the terrible knowledge that if he does not survive she will never be the same again.

She can hear the Doctor moving around in sick bay, preparing for the dreadful procedure that will save Trip's life and take away Sim's, and she acknowledges the weight of guilt she feels for allowing the clone to be created. She does not deceive herself into believing she did it for Earth, or the Enterprise or anyone else for that matter. She knows, with bitter shame, that she failed to act on account of her own desires, because she could not comprehend a universe that did not contain him. Her drug fuelled insight also informs her, that while she may feel remorse, she has no regret.

She also knows that she owes Sim a heavy debt and, as much as she wants to stay with Trip, she must go and offer the Clone a part of herself in exchange for his life. It may just be a token, but he has already saved the ship once and is about to give his life to do it again and it will cost her so little to give him something that she knows will bring him a great deal of happiness.

Strangely both her emotions and her logic agree with this course of action. Logic and emotion in harmony.

She leaves sickbay and heads back to Engineering to review the results of the diagnostic she was running. Once she has completed that task she will seek Sim out and offer him that small token in exchange for his life.

* * *

She feels strangely calm after she leaves Sim. There is a voice in her subconscious, she can't decide if it is logic or emotion, that is telling her the she should feel something in relation to the kiss. All she can identify is a faint sense of satisfaction for completing the "mission" she had assigned herself. It occurs to her that the effect of the low dose exposure to the trellium is close to wearing off. She can no longer identify how she feels about that.

The corridors around Commander Tucker's quarters are strangely crowded. She ponders the reason for so many crew members being in this part of the ship which is comprised primarily of quarters and lifeboats. The barbershop is one corridor over but it seems highly unlikely that this many crew members are waiting for a haircut today, of all days. The faint trace of emotion provides her with the answer: they are here for Sim.

This deduction proves correct when Corporal Hawkins waylays her only metres from the entrance to Commander Tucker's quarters.

Sub-Commander?" He looks down, seemingly embarrassed about approaching a senior officer. "How is he Ma'am? I mean, you've just seen him. Do think he wants visitors?" He looks at her intently and her fading emotions leap to the surface.

I believe he is resigned to his fate but I am sure he would appreciate the company of people he has come to call friends while he has lived here." She tells him softly.

Hawkins drops his head and looks away. "Yeah, I can't figure out if my reluctance to face him is due to my belief that he won't want to see me, I mean, I don't think Commander Tucker even knows who I am, or because I'm too much of a chickenshit to face him."

She finds herself echoing her words to Sim from the day before. "I can't answer that."

Hawkins nods slightly in response.

She starts to move away but stops and turns back to Hawkins. "Corporal Hawkins, we have only known Sim for a few days, but we should remember he has known us for his entire life. I do not think, in the last moments of his existence, he would turn away from the people he likely thinks of as family, people he is prepared to die for; and I think that he would not want them to turn away from him."

Hawkins smiles slightly, let's out a huff of breath and moves towards Commander Tucker's door. He pauses before palming the bell but does not look at her. "Thank you, Ma'am," he says softly and presses his finger against the chime button.

T'Pol, says nothing further and heads towards Engineering.

In the end she does not go to Engineering. The air on E deck is heavy with emotion and she acknowledges that it will be detrimental to her emotional stability to remain amongst it while Dr. Phlox completes the procedure. Instead she goes to the Lower Observation Deck on F deck and looks out at the dead nacelles disappearing into the black of space.

She looks back on the past 11 days and ponders what she has learnt: about herself, but also about the growing connection she is forming with Commander Tucker. There is complicated knowledge on both fronts. She can acknowledge that her experiment with the Trellium (as she chooses to call it in hindsight) while successful, should not be repeated. With her emotions rapidly deadening, she is able to obtain the necessary detachment to know that the lure of the emotions she experiences at low doses is seductive, however, the way she experiences her existence under its influence is far from the Vulcan way.

She is able to concede that the attachment to Commander Tucker is problematic on a number of levels: professional, personal, cultural and biological. Further experimentation with trellium will only complicate the matter further. Particularly in light of Sim's revelation that Commander Tucker's emotions are also engaged. From a purely logical standpoint, cessation of the neuro-pressure sessions would be circumspect. But a stray emotion, riding a molecule of Trellium, cries out in protest at the prospect. She knows how important the sessions were to him from a purely therapeutic perspective and will be even more so during his recovery from his injury. But her recent brush with emotions also informs her that the emotional fallout of terminating sessions will also impact the Commander.

She has spent long enough amongst humans to know that the emotional support that he received in the sessions was, in all probability, as beneficial as the neuro-pressure itself. Appropriate or not, the Commander's feelings for her do exist and it is likely he will be deeply troubled when he learns of Sim and the terrible price the clone paid to save him. There is a strong likelihood that he would view cessation of the sessions as withdrawal of her friendship and would further tie it into the complicated feelings that all the crew have around the existence of Sim. Added to the weight of the personal loss he was still struggling with, the psychological impact on the Commander may be enough to trigger a full relapse of his insomnia. With these thoughts in mind she commits herself to continuing the sessions as the most logical course of action, despite some acknowledged misgivings.

She is satisfied with her conclusions. Not just for the logical way she has approached the problem but also with the vital perspective provided by the trellium impelled emotional insight. She can see clearly how much more effective she was when dealing with all manner of crew interactions in the past 36 hours than she had been in the previous two and a half years. The knowledge makes her question her earlier resolve to abstain from further voluntary exposure. She ponders the theory for a moment and decides that, until the trellium is fully purged and Commander Tucker is restored to health, she should hold off on further action.

Her cerebral housekeeping complete she takes a deep breath, and staring into the black of space begins to go into a light meditation to pass the time until the allocated hour that, as she has calculated, Dr. Phlox will have completed the procedure.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise anyone was down here." The clipped tones of Lieutenant Reed bring her out of the light trance immediately.

She turns to see the wiry Security Office retreating from the room.

"Lieutenant Reed," she greets him. "Your continued presence will not be cause me any discomfort. You are welcome to remain if that is your preference," she tells his retreating back.

Reed turns to her but as he does he twists his mouth slightly and looks away, expressing some emotion she can't decipher. It occurs to her that this morning she would have understood.

"Thank you, Sub-Commander," he says as he steps into the room and approaches the windows. "It's getting a little tense up there. You could just about cut the air with a knife."

She ponders the phrase for a minute, turning it over in her head and drawing meaning from the context. The idea intrigues her, that humans could consider their emotions to have a physical manifestation. She files the thought away for future contemplation.

"I also found the atmosphere somewhat emotionally charged," she replies without shifting her gaze from the blackness of space.

Reed nods slightly, mirrors her at ease posture and follows her gaze into nothingness.

They stand next to each other in silent contemplation for a few minutes when Reed suddenly breaks the silence. "Did we do the right thing? Is the Captain right? Are we doomed without Trip?"

It is a question she does not really want to answer herself. She does not want saving Commander Tucker, at any cost, to be the wrong decision. She considers her answer carefully, not wanting to sow dissent amongst the crew in the wake of this incident.

"Commander Tucker's skills are unique and his loss would certainly negatively impact on the odds of a desirable outcome. However, the changes of success on this mission have never been good, so whether the Commander's death would materially affect the results of our efforts is almost impossible to determine. She tells him honestly.

Reed presses his lips and shifts on his feet slightly. "So what will happen if the surgery isn't a success and Trip doesn't survive? What do we do then?" Reed's face twitches as he speaks and T'Pol realises for the first time since meeting the taciturn human that his tightly wound mannerisms are a result of his attempts to suppress the outward expression of his emotions.

"This is a highly trained, dedicated crew," She tells him. "While the loss of a pivotal officer, like Commander Tucker, would be likely to have a detrimental affect on morale, I am confident that we would adapt. Lieutenant Hess has shown herself to be capable of taking on the leadership of Engineering, I have full confidence in your skills to step into the role of third in Command. The personality gap left by Commander Tucker would be more difficult to fill but there are junior officers, like Ensign Mayweather, who while inexperienced, display a personality type that could satisfy the informal role of team building that Commander Tucker has always performed."

Reed nods stiffly and she knows that she has satisfied the technical part of the question, but the last 36 hours has taught her that there is an emotional component to these enquiries that also must be addressed. She takes a breath and relaxes her discipline just enough to access the last threads of her trellium fuelled emotion.

"And we would miss him," she says softly. "Perhaps for the rest of our lives."

Reed shuts his eyes and swallows then drops his head for a moment before transferring his gaze back out to the endlessness of space.

They both remain like that, fixed in their private contemplation until a chime from the comm jolts them from their reverie, summoning them to sickbay.

The End


End file.
